Wish You Were Here
by SuperWhoLockness
Summary: About six months after The Reidenbach Fall. John thinks about Sherlock on a cold winter night. Sort of AU. I don't want to give too much away. ONE-SHOT.


**Okay so this is my first one-shot. Pretty AU. I don't want to give too much away so I'll just let you read it!**

**Let me know what you all think!**

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><p>John walked over to the window where Sherlock usually stood, composing or playing, or both. The air was brisk and cold as snowflakes fell outside. He felt grateful to be in the flat at 221B Baker Street, even if Sherlock wasn't there. This didn't feel unusual since the consulting detective came and left whenever the need arose within him.<p>

The tea kettle started to scream, signaling to John that it was ready. He hurried over to the kitchen and turned it off before pouring the hot water over his tea bags in one of Sherlock's favorite mugs before he added a splash of milk and then resumed his position in the armchair across from his own: Sherlock's own favorite armchair.

He set the cup on a saucer and placed it on the table next to him, letting it cool off a bit. John let his body sink into the chair before taking a deep inhale from it; it smelled like Sherlock.

Like vanilla and sandalwood.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, thinking back to the case with The Woman. _The _Woman, as Sherlock had eventually consoled to him. He sat in this armchair, strumming on his violin in thought.

Always in thought, always thinking. It seemed impossible for the detective's mind to remain stagnant. This was both a beauty and a curse. John _loathed_ how Sherlock could never switch off but at the same time, found himself entranced and in absolute awe of his friend's intelligence and genius.

When the doctor opened his eyes again, he saw Sherlock sitting in the armchair across from his own, looking displeased but calm.

John couldn't stop himself from smiling now. "Just couldn't resist the temptation, could you, Sherlock? You had to come back."

"Of course I had to come back. I had to see how you were doing, since the accident."

He let out a scoff and a bitter laugh. "Accident… is that what we're calling it these days? I would say it was anything but an accident."

Sherlock gave a dismissal shrug and sighed before picking up his violin and letting his fingers dance across the cords rhythmically. John watched him do this for several moments and took in the pleasant sounds of the instrument.

Suddenly, Sherlock ceased playing and looked curiously at John. "You're sitting where I used to sit. Why?"

John shook his head now, half smirking but he looked like he was fighting the urge to punch him. "You're asking me why I'm sitting where you used to sit? Come on, Sherlock. I'm sure a genius like yourself could figure it out if you thought about it."

He narrowed his eyes at his friend and sat back, clearing his throat. "I'm not good with understanding how human emotions work, John. You're aware of this little fact, I am certain."

"Clearly."

Sherlock sighed now and chewed anxiously on his lower lip. "Then please, do inform me."

John was quiet for about five whole, long minutes before he looked down at his hands, his lips no longer pulled to the sides in a smirk, but in a frown now. "I… errr… I miss you, Sherlock."

The detective cocked his head to the side before he straightened it again, his greyish-blue eyes dancing and flickering with the dim light of the flames from the fireplace. "I'm right here, John."

The doctor shook his head. "No, you can't be here, Sherlock. This is just my mind playing tricks on me because it can't handle the truth."

Sherlock placed the violin across the chair and folded his hands. "The truth is splendidly overrated. I'm here, obviously. You can see me, clear as day, can you not?"

John looked painfully in Sherlock's direction and took a sharp breath. "You left. You left, Sherlock, and you didn't look back. You left me here to rot."

He bit his lip now and swallowed hard. "I… do apologize for that, John, but… in all fairness, I did apologize to you right before I left."

The doctor clenched his jaw again and dug his fingers into the arm of the chair. "By phone. You apologized on the phone to me, not even face to face – "

"Well… actually, it was sort of –"

"No," John grimaced. "It wasn't. I'm so glad that you can rest peacefully with your own lie but I won't do the same. "

There was a sharp chill in the room now and John knew it wasn't just from the winter winds outside. It was in here, with Sherlock. The two men sat across from each other in a cold silence that felt like ages before the young detective finally spoke again.

"I'm… sorry, John. I wish I knew what you wanted me to say to you. I wanted to tell you about my departure in person, but I couldn't. There wasn't enough time."

John hit his hand on the arm of the chair again. "You cock! You know damn well there was time! You didn't have to let me know you were planning on leaving in front of half the city!"

"John…." Sherlock started but the doctor shook his head angrily.

"No, you're going to listen to _me_, now. I deserve that much from you, Sherlock."

He nodded once and sighed softly. "Very well."

John searched his friend's face, searching for the answers to questions he could never ask. "I knew that there was everything going on between Moriarty and you but you didn't think that leaving like this wasn't a cowardly thing to do?"

"It was the only thing I could do, John," Sherlock answered softly, gently in a tone that John hadn't ever heard before.

"No it wasn't, Sherlock. It wasn't! You could've talked to me! You could've told me your predicament and we could've figured it out together, just like we always did with the cases before. We could've gotten Mycroft to help us if it came to that! You didn't need to just up and abandon me like that!" John yelled at him, furious.

Sherlock wet his lips before he looked down at his folded hands, perhaps out of shame now. "I might have gone about this the wrong way, I see that now."

"A little too late for realizations, isn't it?" John asked bitterly, shaking his head in disgust at either himself or at Sherlock, he couldn't be sure.

The detective leaned forward now and forced himself to meet the doctor's saddened eyes. "You are right, John, and… I do apologize, but you know as well as I do that it had to be done. I had to leave you in the manner that I did. If I didn't do this, then you would've died. Mrs. Hudson would've died, Lestrade… you all would've died at the hands of the men who were hired by Moriarty. Do you realize that I did what I did to save all of you?"

"Oh, you're just the patron saint of goodness now, are you?" John wiped away a single tear from his face.

Sherlock's facial expression never changed. "Be calm, John, and answer my question. I'd like to hear you say it aloud."

"Yes," John whispered, his voice shaking as the anger dissipated slowly. "You did what you had to do to save us all. I know this. You had to leave, but t-that doesn't change the fact that I miss you. I miss you so… so fucking much, Sherlock," John's lip quivered as more tears escaped from his eyes.

The tears seemed to make Sherlock uncomfortable but he remained stoic and his calm self. "I know; that's why you still see me now. You can't let go because you've hung on for far too long. You became involved…"

John shook his head but he knew it was true; he _had_ become involved, emotionally, with Sherlock. It didn't even matter it was one-sided or that the detective never knew John's true feelings towards him. "W-Why am I seeing you, though? You're not really here. You're an illusion. You're… y-you're _dead._"

Sherlock nodded once. "You're a doctor, John. I know you know what is happening. You need to admit it to yourself or else you're never going to stop seeing me."

John wiped his hot tears away with both the palms of his face again before he swallowed back a sob and quickly stood up. "I-I don't want to ever stop seeing y-you, Sherlock. Please, don't make me stop seeing you."

"This isn't healthy, and you know it. You know that seeing me here and making up the words you're hearing right now coming out of my mouth is only because of yourself. You're still in denial, believing I could still be alive, somehow. You can't keep on living this way, John. You just can't…"

He turned around quickly and looked at the figure in the chair. "I can and I will if it means I can continue to hear you speak every day that I wake up. If I made this all stop, then my heart would stop beating like yours did."

Sherlock stood up quickly now and stood in front of the doctor, looking at him with almost cold, emotionless eyes. "You need to take your medication. You need to or else you're going to go insane, John. You need to take it for me, if for no one else."

"I-If I take it, then I won't see you again…" John let out a soft cry now before he covered his mouth with his hand as more tears fell. "I _need _you. I-I miss you so much that I-I can't stand it."

Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on John's shoulder before he gently caressed it, his expression softening a bit. "I know, John, but you need to move on. You need a life of your own and you aren't going to find it here, in this flat, or in this city. All of it was ours. You're going to drink tea here and think about all the times we shared together, for better and for worse. You have a wife now who needs you. She's pregnant and you come here every day, spending several hours here when there's nothing left here for you anymore."

John sniffled and took a deep breath. "_You're _here, Sherlock."

The detective smirked now and shook his head. "I'm inside your head, John. I'm only here because you want me to be. The truth is, I'm always with you, in _here_," Sherlock placed a bony hand over John's chest where his heart was safely tucked beneath his ribcage.

John searched Sherlock's eyes again and nodded through his sobs, his shoulders shaking. He wanted to reach out and touch the younger man, pull him into a tight hug, tell him about Mary, but he couldn't. He wouldn't ever get to.

He swallowed hard again. "W-What happens now?"

Sherlock's smirk turned into a small, rare smile that he only let John see once in a blue moon. "You live, John. You leave this place, you take your medication every day, and you go live your life with your wife and child."

John blinked and suddenly, Sherlock Holmes was gone. Again. He looked around, panicked. He glanced over at his now cold tea that had gone forgotten, before he took several deep breaths and rubbed his eyes hard. He wouldn't get to see his friend ever again, but maybe that was the way it had to be.

_No._

He felt angry now, robbed of his time with Sherlock. He shoved the end table that held his tea over, violently, causing the mug to fall to the floor and shatter, leaving a brown stain on the carpet. John threw the small skull that rested on the mantle before he started pulling out all the files, folders and science books that Sherlock had collected and placed meticulously on the bookshelves. By the time he was done with this, his chest heaved as he breathed heavily.

Then, he moved over to the violin that was still sitting by Sherlock's composing easel that held sheets of music and notes. It had always been there, John knew, and he had wanted his friend to play it again so badly. That had been why he had seen it suddenly by the armchair, but here it was in front of him, in his hands.

He caressed the wood it was made out of and suddenly felt his anger leave him once again, but this time it was for good. John traced his fingers down the instrument and breathed the scent of it in.

Vanilla and sandalwood.

He hugged the instrument to his chest as fresh tears fell from his eyes and made thin, watery trails down his cheeks.

No, he wouldn't break this. He couldn't bring himself to, ever. No matter how angry or upset he would become. It was the last memento of Sherlock Holmes, a reminder to the doctor how the greatest man and friend he would ever know, had lived and walked among the ordinary men and women in England.

John slowly walked down the stairs of the flat and then walked out of 221B before he let his feet lead him back to the home he shared with Mary, still tightly but carefully, clutching the violin to his chest.


End file.
